“Have we not known for a long time that the riddle of the
sphinx says much more than it seems to say?”

André Breton, View, 1942

Mythology may be a text whose meaning remains “arbitrary,
meaningless, absurd” (8–9), open to a multitude of ideological and geographic
interpretations, as Claude Lévi-Strauss has argued. For the surrealists,
however, it offered a fantastic discourse with which to champion the
irrational. The myth of the sphinx was especially attractive, providing the
perfect metatext for an exploration of forbidden desire, as well as
encompassing the fantasy of the femme fatale, the potential of the city for the
marvelous encounter, and a means of self-questioning by which logic and riddle
could be set against each other.

Intrinsic to the surrealists’ stance on the sphinx as a poetic
representation was a gendered view of desire, of course. Paradoxically, woman
was framed as a peculiarly initiatory and healing power on the one hand, and as
a fatal seductress on the other. Her double-edged profile, encompassing life
and death, allowed the male surrealist to envisage himself as poetic hero,
setting out on unknown paths to find love, and facing danger and desire,
whether in the city, château, forest or desert landscape. In “Discours sur le
peu de réalité” (1924), André Breton fantasizes about suits of armor and woman
as the holy grail, staging the challenge in the medieval château: “I stand in
the vestibule of a chateau, lantern in hand, illuminating one after another the
gleaming suits of armor. […] one of these suits seems almost my size. If only I
could buckle it on and thus recapture a little of the feeling of a man of the
fourteenth century” (2: 17). He turns his back on the contemporary in favor of
heraldry and the romance of the unknown. But alongside his romance of the
artist as medieval knight is a vision of the non-western frontier that is
pertinent to the fantasy of the sphinx. Breton implores:

Orient! Victorious Orient! You who have had only a
symbolical value, dispose of me, Orient of wrath and pearls! In the flow of a
phrase as well as the mysterious wind of jazz, reveal to me your plans for the
coming revolutions. You who are the resplendent image of my dispossessions,
Orient, beautiful bird of prey and of innocence, I implore you from the depths
of the kingdom of shadows! Inspire me, so that I may be he in whom there are no
more shadows. (2: 28)

While Breton’s “Discours sur le peu de réalité” does not present
the sphinx herself, his Orientalist gaze reinforces the erotic appeal of the
sphinx. Breton’s vision of foreign lands complements his vision of the ideal
woman: their lure lies in the fantasy of the exotic. Four years later his dark
eyed protagonist in Nadja (1928) speaks to the sphinx directly. Nadja
reveals many a sphinx-like trait as she and the city of Paris become one and as
Breton both desires and fears her. When walking past the Sphinx Hotel in Paris
with Nadja, Breton questions the master-muse relationship he shares with her
and yet her potential to still him:

I have taken Nadja, from the first day to the last, for a
free genius, something like one of those spirits of the air which certain
magical practices momentarily permit us to entertain but which we can never
overcome. As for her, I know that in every sense of the word, she takes me for
a god, she thinks of me as the sun. I also remember [....] having appeared
black and cold to her, like a man struck by lightning, lying at the feet of the
Sphinx. (Nadja 111)

In L’Amour fou (1937), Breton takes the sphinx and the
amorous quest outside the streets of Paris and into the Orient once more. He
writes of a May night full of desire and perfume “in a restless murmur,
vertiginous as the signal, over the silk of the deserts, of the Sphinx
approaching” (Mad Love 69). Again the corporeal nature of the desert
land, with undulating curves, silky surfaces and perfumed aroma, like the flesh
of a nubile woman, allow Breton to simultaneously portray the male artist as valiant
lover and explorer and the female as perpetually elusive. In this
self-fashioning, Breton followed the writings of Eliphas Lévi (Alphonse Louis
Constant, 1810–1875), the nineteenth century alchemist to whom he repeatedly
returned and to whom he paid homage in his Histoire de la magie (1957).
In his writings Lévi offered a Gnostic position on desire based on a fusion of
Jewish, Christian, Babylonian and Egyptian elements; these helped shape many of
Breton’s ideas, as Anna Balakian has documented in André Breton, Magus of
Surrealism (1971). Notably, Lévi conceived of desire as “overcoming
antinomies: la coincidentia oppositorium, the coexistence of opposites,
and the reversal of one into the other” (Balakian 36). Further, in Lévi’s
writings, woman was given the role of the prophet, and in replacing the French
Revolution’s rally cry of “liberty, equality and fraternity” with a call for “humanity,
justice and solidarity,” Lévi aligned the struggle for these concepts with, in
his words, “the enigma of the modern sphynx, which must be divined or we perish”
(Balakian 38). Building on such ideas, it is woman’s shape-turning abilities,
her allegorical guise as sphinx, siren, mermaid, beautiful girl with serpent
legs, iconic Melusine or Isis, that allowed Breton to see her as a
transformational power; in promoting the loss of Self in the Other she had the
potential to lead man into the ‘silk of the deserts.’

As Breton turned to the sphinx as a means of reinforcing his
knight-muse fantasy, Max Ernst and Salvador Dalí turned to the sphinx as the
seductive intermediary between gods and humans, fantasy and the real, with an
emphatic Freudian emphasis on the tale. Sigmund Freud aligned the sphinx with
forbidden sexuality, his peculiar focus on the sphinx’s role in the tale of Oedipus
Rex aligning her not only with threatening femininity but also with
parricide. In The Interpretation of Dreams (1900), he describes
Sophocles’ Oedipus Rex as “a tragedy of destiny” (363), quickly
dismissing the centrality of the sphinx to Oedipus’s tale in favor of the later
part of the story, when Oedipus realizes that he has killed his father and
seduced his mother. This aspect of the story allows Freud to expand upon the
Oedipal complex, finding a universality in the ancient Greek myth: “It is the
fate of all of us, perhaps, to direct our first sexual impulse towards our
mother and our first hatred and our first murderous wish against our father.
Our dreams convince us this is so. King Oedipus who slew his father Laïus and
married his mother Jocasta, merely shows us the fulfillment of our own
childhood wishes” (364).

However, it is the sphinx who leads to the denouement of the
tale. Her riddles terrorize the city of Thebes and her seductive but hybrid
form (head and bust of a woman, body of a lion, wings of an eagle) denotes her
sexual allure and threat simultaneously. Many brave men have journeyed to her
lair at the entrance to the city of Thebes only to fall victim to her riddles.
While Oedipus rises to power by solving the sphinx’s riddle, his success is
tarnished: his triumph over the sphinx allows him to take the city and its
newly widowed queen (his mother), but ultimately it is a conquest built on
parricide and incest. The sphinx’s death paves the way for Oedipus’s glory and his
later tragedy. His knowledge and insight allow him to solve the riddle and yet,
ironically, he is exposed as ignorant and blind.

The sphinx’s power and physiognomy, as both female and male,
human and beast, reinforce the vital role of the sexes and the danger of
unlawful union which is central to the tale. Max Ernst and Salvador Dalí follow
this Freudian interpretation of the myth. Dalí’s Remorse, or Sphinx Embedded
in the Sand (1931) depicts a solitary female figure, embedded in sand up to
her waist, her back to the viewer. It alludes to Albrecht Dürer’s Melancholia
I (1514), the forlorn female figure of the German master similarly turning
away from the light and thus symbolically reinforcing the power of the
imagination over the male characteristic of reason. In a desert landscape and
facing a rugged rocky frontier, identifiable as Dalí’s favored Catalan terrain,
the sphinx symbolizes the struggle with the mother figure and, by extension,
impotence. For Dalí, the sphinx was both bad mother and praying mantis: a
threat to the male, and a bearer of death – or in Carlos Rojas’ words “the
mother was the executioner who induced him to the sin of having been born”
(127). In Dalí’s rich Freudian symbolism, the rock face denoted his own
peculiar obsession with masturbation. He named the rock at Cape Creus the “great
masturbator” and enjoyed Breton’s discovery of an island called “Sein” with its
rock called “the sphinx”. Accordingly, in his painting, the sphinx’s position
opposite a craggy rock face reinforces his use of the myth to explore sexual
taboo (Rojas 126–27).

Max Ernst presents the sphinx as androgynous creature in his
collage novel Une Semaine de bonté (1934). In one plate the sphinx peers
into a railway carriage at a man-beast dressed in suit and bowler hat. Beside
him we see the legs of a body lying on the carriage floor, a sign of death that
leads the eye to notice mad dogs tearing at the side of the sphinx’s face in
the desert outside. The vehicle’s nineteenth-century interior and the beauty of
the desert outside the window are here dramatically undermined by Gothic
horror. The sphinx is staged in the desert and, surrounded by a veil of terror,
she brings death and destruction. The choice of setting reminds us of the
difference between the Egyptian sphinx, who protects the pyramids in the bleak
desert, and the Greek myth, where the sphinx prevents entrance to the city of
Thebes. As Jack Spector has observed, the distinction between the Egyptian and
Greek sphinxes was well known to Freud, whereby “the Egyptian sphinx is almost
invariably a symbol of the king”; yet the psychoanalyst conflated both lands in
making the sphinx the symbol of the father figure in his Oedipal scenario
(72–73). In “Dostoievsky and Parricide” (1928), Freud clearly but incorrectly
refers to Oedipus’s sphinx as a symbol of the father, despite his knowledge of
both Egyptian and Greek sphinx iconography. In so doing, Freud undermines the
sphinx’s female profile and prowess. He presents the sphinx as female and
deadly (where it is male and protective in its first, Egyptian form), and yet
aligns her slaying with that of the father (as if she were male and king-like).
Freud’s own personal collection of art included Egyptian artifacts, an ancient
Greek terracotta sphinx, and a copy of Jean-Auguste-Dominique Ingres’ Oedipus
and the Sphinx (1808) (See Burke). In Ingres’ painting, the young and calm
Oedipus stares the small female sphinx in the eye as she guards her cave, one
outstretched finger seeming to suggest he is about to caress her rather than
use the spears he holds in his other hand. It is an image that presents the
sphinx as femme fatale, but Oedipus is undoubtedly the focus of the narrative.
This emphasis reminds us again of the gendered bias underpinning the male surrealist’s
quest for the sphinx.

They were not alone in this bias. As Simone de Beauvoir points
out in The Second Sex (1949), the sphinx became the focus of widespread
artistic and literary exploration from the mid nineteenth century through to
World War II – a period in which “Man is delighted by this very complexity of woman
[...] Is she angel or demon? The uncertainty makes her a Sphinx” (224).1 From the famous Sphinx brothel in Paris to the amorous
pursuit of the femme fatale, the sphinx allowed for poetic indulgence in
feminine mystery and so she “was all the rage in plays, poetry and song” (224).
Effectively, as Elizabeth Wilson argues in The Sphinx in the City: Urban
Life, the Control of Disorder, and Women (1991), the sphinx and modernity
were aligned as they were perceived as sharing an element of seduction and
threat. Woman’s presence in the modern city became problematic – as we find
with Breton’s Nadja, her status was often suspect, poised between prostitute
and fallen woman. Or in Wilson’s words, “Woman is present in cities as
temptress, as whore, as fallen woman, as lesbian, but also as virtuous
womanhood in danger, as heroic womanhood who triumphs over temptation and
tribulation” (6).

If we compare the aforementioned representations of the mythical
creature to those by the woman surrealist Leonor Fini, however, a different
sphinx is found, one who stands as a mistress of riddles but also as a guardian
of life. Fini presents a peculiarly Egyptian sphinx, expanding the sphinx's
mythology for surrealism so that the feminine denotes humanism rather than the
simple threat of death. Fini’s paintings emphasize the regenerative power of
the sphinx and her ability to return the individual to his/her primordial
nature. Her fascination with the sphinx predated her affiliation with surrealism.
As she explained to her biographer Peter Webb, her obsession with the sphinx
went back to her childhood: “I remember I wanted to be like the sphinx” (Webb
102). Webb documents how as a young girl she enjoyed the Egyptian sphinx of
Miramar Castle and the caryatids that adorned the Eden cinema in Trieste (where
she lived from the age of two with her mother Malvina, who had fled her husband
Herminio Fini in Buenos Aires). As Fini claimed to have appreciated the
sphinxes as “images of femininity triumphing over a city” (11), Webb observes
that the sphinx played a major role in her art and life. But her fascination
with the sphinx went beyond a trope or persona; in her obsessive return to the
sphinx during and in the aftermath of World War II we may see her sphinx as an
answer to Breton’s war-time call for a new myth, as well as a proto-feminist
icon for surrealism. From The Shepherdess of the Sphinxes (1941) to her
voyage to Egypt ten years later, Fini presented the Egyptian sphinx as a
matriarchal and humanist figure.2 Indeed, the photograph of Fini taken by Adrien de Menasce beside the Great
Sphinx at Giza reveals the artist’s relationship with the triumphant creature
and its role, in turn, for surrealism: Fini poses so that we only see her upper
torso, her eyes looking down as she stages herself as the mirror image of the
pensive and protective sphinx.

When she left Trieste for Paris in 1931 and met the surrealists
there, Fini was already well versed in Freud. In an interview with surrealist
poet Edouard Roditi in 1963, she spoke of the surrealists’ surprise at her
learning and that, “I, an Italian girl, had already read all the published
works of Kafka in German as well as Jensen’s Gradiva and most of the
writings of Freud, all of which were as then quite new in Paris, but, in
Trieste, had been part of our heritage as Austrian citizens until the end of
the First World War” (Roditi 21). She was also familiar with Jules Michelet’s
1863 study La Sorcière, once describing Michelet’s witches as “beautiful,
rebellious, clever” (Fini44) – an appreciation central to her portrayal
of the sphinx, as we shall see. Fini was quickly embraced by the surrealist
circle. Paul Éluard wrote a poem entitled “Le Tableau Noir”, dedicated to Fini
and evoking “La demoiselle inopportune” (The inopportune young lady) (Éluard
203–04), which was reproduced in Fini’s first American exhibition at the Julien
Levy gallery in New York in the autumn of 1936. This was a joint show with Max
Ernst, a coupling which suggests she was held in high esteem by both Levy and
Ernst. A critic writing in The New York Times in November 1936 notes
that Levy described Fini as a “SurRaphaelite, because she reminds him of Uccello,
of Pollaiuolo and of those nineteenth century brotherhood masters” (Jewell 22).
Fini exhibited with the surrealists for the first time that year in Paris too,
contributing a found object to the 1936 Surrealist Exhibition of Objects at the
Charles Ratton Gallery. Her object was a fossilized book, supposedly found in
the sea: its cover was matted with seaweed and shells such that only part of
its title, “Columbus”, was visible.3 An armoire she designed for the opening show at Leo Castelli’s new Galerie
Drouin in Paris in May 1939 better revealed her obsession with female viragoes
however: the doors were graced by two winged angels, their hair coiling over
the top of the wardrobe.

Prior to Fini’s visit to Egypt in 1951, she depicted herself as a
shepherdess ruling over a harem of sphinxes in the oil painting The
Shepherdess of the Sphinxes (1941). The scene is set in an apocalyptic landscape,
the only signs of natural life being discarded flowers and bones. Eight
sphinxes populate the landscape as the shepherdess looks away from the
spectator, leaning on her staff, naked apart from a metal thong-like garment.
Peggy Guggenheim came to own this painting through Max Ernst, who saw it in
Fini’s studio in Monte Carlo in 1941. He encouraged Guggenheim to buy it before
setting sail for America from Marseilles that year. In her memoirs, Guggenheim
is far from generous in her account of the purchase, despite the fact it would
win critics’ praise when exhibited soon after in New York. She claimed she
bought it as “Max adored her and wanted me to.” To Guggenheim, “Leonor Fini was
a great pet of Max’s [...]. He had Leonora Carrington and Leonor Fini and was
perpetually trying to further their careers [....] Laurence, Marcel and I did
not like [Fini’s] spoiled vedette manner” (235). Ernst’s opinion clearly swayed
Guggenheim and appears to have swayed Breton too. Guggenheim continues “Later
in New York, Breton very much objected to its being in my collection, but
because of Max he couldn’t do anything about it” (235). Certainly, Ernst
admired Fini and her art, but it might be fairer to say that he appreciated and
encouraged the work of women artists who shared his own interests in magic and
alchemy. Writing for a 1960 exhibition of Fini’s in London, Ernst emphasized
the vertiginous quality of Fini’s paintings, a quality which is sphinx-like in
mood and technique:

Her paintings are made up of vertigo. Canvases which, at
first, seem to be evil, full of corpse-like dissolution [...] After the first
dizziness, those who are bold enough let themselves be drawn by the inverted
vacuum, and for their exorbitant reward, they discover that this abyss, which
seems dark (glutinous), is inhabited by the most astounding collection of
legendary beings, that it is free from every dangerous, every filthy thing.
Miraculous plays of darkness and light are given ultimate expression in the
pulsating pearly colors of this chimerical flesh, that resembles the bifid
love-making of sphinxes. (Ernstn. pag.)

Despite her obvious jealousy, Guggenheim did exhibit The
Shepherdess of the Sphinxes in the inaugural exhibition at her new Art of
this Century Gallery in New York in 1942 and again in her 1943 show An
Exhibition by 31 Women, which included artworks by other surrealists,
notably Leonora Carrington, Meret Oppenheim, and Dorothea Tanning. In his essay
“Shepherdess of the Sphinxes”, published in View in June 1943, Leon
Kochnitsky singled out Fini’s painting, reproducing an image of it alongside an
essay in which he asserted that “Improvisation, luck and instinct play
important roles in a woman’s art” (49). Kochnitsky described Fini in terms
which were surely progressive in 1943, however patronizing they might appear to
readers today: he described her as a woman who paints like a man, following the
path of “Berthe Morizot” (sic), with a “highly developed sense of fantasy, a
gift for ornament, a talent for sheer surprise and prodigious capacity for
metamorphosis” (66). Interestingly, Kochnitsky acknowledges that Fini combines
the portrait with the fantasy setting in her work and is herself “the imperious
shepherdess of a herd of sphinxes [who] really creates a new myth; these are
other Arianes, Andromedas, Cleopatras – although they do not have these names”.
In 1955, Marcel Brion also noted how Fini explores the fantastic in a different
manner from her male contemporaries, in drawing on “a mythology lost and
rediscovered” (N. pag.).4 He
identified the cat as the animal who best characterizes her mythology – her cat
symbolizing “all of nature, non-human, extra-human, animate or inanimate” – and
he argued that her mythological creatures are always feminine (“monsters are
always monstresses”) (N. pag.).5 As a result, for Brion, Fini’s is an emphatically matriarchal view of myth and
the universe: “It is not the sign of a dominant femininity, but of membership
of an ancient cult, of a most singular revival, characteristic of the magical
foundation of an art linked to the primordial beliefs of a growing humanity”
(N. pag.).6

Fini’s paintings of the sphinx must be viewed as part of the surrealists’
search for a new myth, notably the myth of the “Great Transparent Ones”,
written of in Breton’s ‘Prolegomena to a Third Surrealist Manifesto or Not’
(1942). Here Breton stated that myths would “mysteriously reveal themselves to
us” (293), and would result in new realities. That year, in the April 1942
edition of View, Nicolas Calas wrote of the “diabolical” woman in surrealism,
the “woman in our dreams” – a woman he claimed to find in the art of Ernst and
the person of Fini, writing “Leonor Fini, one of the most inspiring women of
our time, walks in the garden of Ernst’s paradise” (21). But Calas’ ideal woman
is ambivalent: when she stands in water, she does so not as Botticelli’s Venus
does, but in a way that denotes “dryness and nudity, provocation and
protection, virginity and maternity” (ibid.). Calas’ essay was illustrated with
a photograph of a clothed Fini in a bath, posed with one arm behind her neck,
and staring out at the photographer. Fini may have spent the war years in
Europe but her sphinxes and ‘diabolical’ profile were still present in the surrealist
circle in exile. Her art and persona complemented the surrealist search for
myth, and the intrigue with the diabolical witch, written of in Breton’s Anthologie
de l’humour noir (1943) where he acknowledges Jules Michelet, “who so
beautifully rendered the Witch” in La Sorcière (1862). It also
complemented the concept of initiation of which René Guénon writes in his Aperçus
sur l'initiation (1946), a text favored by the surrealists and drawn on for
their 1947 international exhibition devoted to myth. In that show initiation
was presented as a rebirth and myth as a vital element to those processes.7

Male and female surrealists agreed that the sphinx was the
mythological creature they most admired. In 1943 the sphinx was hailed as the
pre-eminent mythological creature in the journal VVV. Twenty-one surrealists
in exile were asked to rank fifteen mythological creatures in order of their “attraction”
– the sphinx received the highest rating, with six of the respondents ranking
her first (“Concerning” 166–67). Among the respondants was Leonora Carrington
(ranking the sphinx sixth), a close friend of Fini’s, who later, in a response
to a series of questions on magic which Breton included in his 1957 volume L’Art
Magique, further reinforced the significance of the sphinx for the
movement. In her reply, Carrington saw the artist as modern day magician or
explorer on a “strange magic ocean,” searching for “salvation” for his “diseased
planet,” and concluded that the sphinx was the magical creature who could lead
the way (Carrington 281). Her polychrome wooden sculpture Cat Woman of
1951, which is just over two meters in height and decorated with
hieroglyph-like figures and landscapes from the torso to the feet, exemplifies
her admiration of the Egyptian guardian, though she leaned more towards Celtic
and Mexican mythology in her paintings.

Fini thus shared her fellow surrealists’ admiration of the sphinx,
but hers was a peculiarly matriarchal mythology which advanced a humanist and
proto-feminist surrealism at a time of war. Fini owned a copy of Grillot de
Givry’s study Le Musée des sorcières, mages et alchemistes (1929) (Webb
49). In this book much is made of the power of sorcerers to change into animals
“to escape more readily from those who tried to defeat their intentions,” and
here the hermetic androgyne, fusing Sun and Moon, man and woman, is documented
in a history of text and image from the Middle Ages to the nineteenth century (Givry 69). She also turned to Michelet’s La Sorcière for a female type who spoke to magic, animal magnetism, and clairvoyance. In his
study, Michelet presents the witch as a hermit and an outcast, either mocked by
children and townsfolk or feared for her power to “derange the senses” (76).
The witch was aligned with Nature, but Nature in all her unruly isolation; thus
the desert or forest – that is, unmapped spaces – offer the perfect settings
for an encounter. Michelet writes: “Her place of abode? It is in spots
impracticable, in a forest of brambles, on a wild moor where thorn and thistle
intertwining forbid approach. The night she passes under an old cromlech. If
anyone finds her there, she is isolated by the common dread; she is surrounded,
as it were, by a ring of fire” (12). Michelet also observed “The Italian women
often became cats, and gliding under the doors, sucked, they said, the blood of
children” (107), an observation which seems especially pertinent to Fini, an
artist reared in Trieste and for whom the cat was so important, as is clear
from her self-portrait as a feline goddess, The Ideal Life (1950).

In her art Fini gives voice to the sphinx, not Oedipus, refusing
to see her and womankind as a problematic ‘riddle’ that deserves no further
attention, as in Freud. When Fini displays the male before the sphinx he is not
poised for action, sexual or murderous, but asleep. While acknowledging Greek
mythology and the bare-breasted malevolent sphinx, Fini embraced her Egyptian
counterpart. She presented a sphinx who is often an androgynous and benevolent
figure, frequently adorned with Oriental jewels and headdress. Fini presents the
sphinx as Nature empowered but also poised against ‘civilization’ and all its
violence. Thus in Sphinx Philagria (1945) the sphinx appears in a
Bosch-like landscape, with surrounding flora and fauna rendered in exact
detail, including skulls, with insects crawling in and out of them. Her
youthful fertility, symbolized in long luscious hair and pert breasts, stands
in stark contrast to the death about her and the ominously overcast sky that
hangs over a cityscape in the rear of the composition. Woman and Nature are
one, as woman is rooted to the soil. Together they symbolize the potential for
life despite death.

In Little Guardian Sphinx (1943–44), the Egyptian version
is again represented, as the sphinx is posed in a recumbent position, typical
of those found by archaeologists at temple sites, and is recognizable as a
personification of female deity in a land where the cat signified the female.

Where the sphinx of Greek mythology was a monstrous
threat to stability, the sphinx of Egyptian mythology was a protector, the
guardian of the temples of the Nile Valley, the figure who guarded the entrance
to death. The face of the sphinx might be male or female. In having the body of
a lion and the wings of an eagle the sphinx conflated the masculine and
feminine: in alchemical symbolism the lion is associated with the earth and
Philosophical Sulphur, the masculine stable substance, and the eagle with
Philosophical Mercury, the feminine volatile substance (Warlick 11). Fini’s
sphinx denotes truth, symbolized by the broken egg shells about her which
suggest the egg shaped oven, the athanor, in which Mercury (symbolizing the
feminine, water, nurturing principle) and Sulphur (symbolizing the male, fire,
the intellect) are combined to make the Philosopher’s stone. The sphinx may, by
extension, be seen as the marriage or fusion of these qualities, as the birth
of the couple, the androgyne, or the ‘Great Work’. The triangular object beside
her further represents a fusion of mind, body and spirit in alchemical
symbolism, and so perfection beyond sexual difference.

When compared to a traditional portrait of the sphinx, such as Gustave
Moreau’s Oedipus and the Sphinx (1864) – a Symbolist variation on
Ingres’ representations by an artist much cited by Breton in L’Art magique – Fini presents a radically different iconography, from a female perspective.
In Moreau’s painting the sphinx thrusts herself on the young Oedipus in a
craggy landscape, their gazes locked as the spectator ponders their precarious
footing. The sphinx’s past suitors lie dead beneath her; she is death disguised
in feminine artifice. In contrast, Fini rejects the characterization of the
sphinx as predator and never positions the male as stronger, more rational or
sure-footed. Rather, if her sphinx lures and engulfs the male, it is so that
rational man loses himself to her superior powers, surrendering to the abyss that
Breton never braved in Nadja. Indeed, if the male artist’s fantasy of
the sphinx necessitated an outsider, prostitute, or voluptuous threatening
force, Fini presents her as an emblem of humanism itself – classical mythology
allowing for the exploration of man’s animal nature as much as that of woman.
While there are no overt references to the war in these works, Judith E.
Bernstock has documented that the humanistic implications of myth allowed
modern artists to turn to mythological characters as metaphors to condemn fascism,
war, and man’s inhumanity to man (see Bernstock 153–83). Bernstock does not
consider the contribution of women surrealists to this genre, nor does she
focus on the sphinx, but her overview makes the important point that artists “used
mythology to illuminate the present” (154). Fini’s sphinx should be viewed as
an assertion of such humanism at a time of brutality, as a symbol of good and
evil at a time when world events forced the individual into a state of
existential self-questioning.

The painting Chthonian Deity Watching over the Sleep of a
Young Man (1946) certainly presents the male hero/Oedipus in radically new
terms. He lies exposed and vulnerable before a bejeweled black sphinx. In
earlier versions of this composition, Sphinx Amalburga (1942) and Woman
Seated on a Naked Man (1942), the female again rests on the male nude. In
the former, he is fully naked, the sphinx holding his limp body and cradling
his head as if he is dead. In the latter a new female type is again asserted as
the male is staged as the nude object of desire. The clothed female suggests
the sphinx narrative in her reflective mood and in looking toward a landscape
in the distant horizon line. Typical of northern Renaissance backgrounds, the
detail of this vista, coupled with the sleeping young male draped in a
sienna-colored sheet, suggest that she reigns over nature, the land, and the passions.

Fini’s model for Chthonian Deity Watching over the Sleep of a
Young Man was Sforzino Sforza, with whom she began a relationship in Rome
in 1945. The model for the sleeping beauties of 1942 was the half-Greek,
half-Ethiopian film-maker Nico Papatakis, whom Fini first painted in 1941 while
living in Monte Carlo. In his memoirs, Tous les Désespoirs sont permis (2003), Papatakis admits his embarrassment at being asked to pose naked by
Fini, but in the context of Fini’s oeuvre none of these male beauties should be
viewed as erotic objects per se – they go beyond personal desire and
offer a transgressive restaging of the sexes (see Webb 88). As Whitney Chadwick
notes in Women Artists and the Surrealist Revolution (1985), the
reclining figure in Chthonian Deity Watching over the Sleep of a Young Man (1946) parodies Lucas Cranach’s Nymph of the Source (1509), reversing
the passive elongated female nude with a male one (Chadwick 123). Though
Chadwick acknowledges the painting as a reinterpretation of traditional sexual
roles, she does not seem convinced that it challenges the problematic of the
erotic female as the key to (male) surrealism head on; it seems to fall within
the trend of many other works by women surrealists she addresses in her book in
approaching “the issue of eroticism obliquely.” However, given that Fini’s
first title for this painting was Sphinx amoureux and that she changed
it to Amalburga, a term she found in a nineteenth-century almanac of
mythological and religious names in Greek, Latin and Hebrew, this work may be
seen as an assertion of a female eroticism as an alternative to that of male
surrealists.8 Fini’s final
title made clear her sphinx was a ‘protector’ and was active – never passive –
in the sexual dynamic.

Further, as Rozsika Parker and Griselda Pollock point out, Chthonian
Deity Watching over the Sleep of a Young Man (1946) may be read as a
variation on Anne-Louis Girodet-Trioson’s Sleep of Endymion (1791), a
tale from Greek mythology where the male also sleeps and is enjoyed by the
female gaze (140). In Girodet-Trioson’s painting, the goddess Diane, disguised
as a moonbeam, caresses the naked body of a beautiful and mortal young shepherd
with rays of light. As the encounter occurs at night when desire knows no
bounds, it may be seen to presage surrealism’s faith in a revolution by night. More
significant, however, is the framing of the male. In her painting, Fini presents
the nude male as a vulnerable, androgynous creature to offer an alternative
sexual dynamic. Fini stated in an interview with Chadwick in June 1982 (St Dyé-sur-Loire) that “The man in my
painting sleeps because he refuses the animus role of the social and
constructed and has rejected the responsibility of working in society toward
those ends” (Chadwick 188). In this painting she presents a “soft” masculinity,
to borrow Abigail Solomon-Godeau’s term, a feminine male in touch with his
feminine anima.9 Fini stages
woman as an alternative path to the destroyed world of man. In a 1993 interview
with Webb, Fini said of the woman who confronts the viewer with a steady gaze
in The Ends of the Earth (1948): “She is woman, symbol of beauty and
deep knowledge […] the essential element of life, the primeval material,
because she knows how to survive the cataclysm” (Webb 143).

Little Hermit Sphinx of 1948 further reminds us of the
matriarchal emphasis of Fini’s imagery and how the sphinx is frequently posed
in a reflective, existential manner in her oeuvre Fini portrays a little sphinx
in the doorway of a ruined building with bones and a broken eggshell in the
foreground. Her gaze is reflective as her eyes look not at the viewer, as in
most sphinx images, but down at her paw, which touches a small skull. Her head
is shaved, a sign that she is a priestess, a guardian in Fini’s personal
symbolism. The painting was made after Fini had surgery on her bladder and
uterus to remove a cancerous tumor, which left her unable to bear children. The
artist did not lament the loss, stating in her 1993 interview with Webb: “The
thought of having children horrified me” (Webb 133). That said, while the egg
denotes alchemical fusion in surrealist imagery, she did admit to Webb that the
broken egg shells had some personal significance: “They represent destruction.
It was no longer possible for me to have children, therefore I thought the eggs
contained children” (Webb 135). With a deflated pink organ-like object dangling
from the door frame above the sphinx, the painting is especially macabre as the
shorn sphinx and barren setting seem to reflect each other.

In their fusion of the personal and the political these sphinx
paintings must be appreciated as proto-feminist, offering a female
interpretation of the riddle of the sphinx and extending surrealist mythology
beyond its focus on the master-muse or Oedipal scenarios. The erotic is staged
in Fini’s work so that the power struggle between the sexes, as played out in
mythology, is questioned. Pierre Borgue observes in his 1983 study Leonor
Fini, ou le théâtre de l’imaginaire, there is an immediately recognizable
pose and theatricality about Fini’s canvases, characterized by a mood of “emmurement”
or numbness (36 and 39). This mood of erotic stupor or numbness fits Fini’s
images of sphinxes bearing down on their male prey, where the spectator seems
witness to an in-between state or act. As we have seen, the vertiginous nature
of this mood, poised between life and death, was recognized by Ernst in 1960,
and it exploits Freud’s and the surrealists’ use of the uncanny to portray the
meeting of Eros (the life drive) and Thanatos (the death drive). But hers is
always a peculiarly female stance on eroticism.

Fini was fascinated with the Marquis de Sade, and the limits of
eroticism as tested in the Sadean genre are revealed in these sphinxes too. At
the time when she was obsessively returning to the sphinx, Fini produced
twenty-two full page drawings and two cul-de-lampe drawings of explicit sexual
detail for a luxury edition of Sade’s Juliette, published in 1944. Her
ink and wash drawings depict women bearing whips, enjoying lesbian orgies, and
flaying male victims, in keeping with Juliette’s libertine character. Alberto
Moravia praised the illustrations in 1945:

Not only has she recaptured the mixture of eighteenth-century
grace and fury, of systematic cruelty and elegance, of reason and dream, that
are proper to the author of Juliette, but she has also given the text an
interpretation of her own, complete and free. The desperation and the sadness,
the macabre pleasure and the unhealthy monotony of the mechanics of eroticism
are represented with real force in these insatiable nudes, in these faces with
their veils of black melancholy. (qtd. in Webb 112)

This unique interpretation of sexual violence is equally apparent
in Fini’s illustrations for a luxury edition of the Sadean novel Histoire
d’O, published by Le Circle du Livre Précieux in 1962. First published in
1954 under the pseudonym Pauline Réage and recounting the tale of the sexual
enslavement of a beautiful young photographer in a château outside Paris, the
novel was often presumed to have been penned by a surrealist and was listed by
Breton in a surrealist calendar of events in 1955. It was not until 1994 that
the true author, Dominique Aury, stepped forward.10 The collaboration between Fini and Aury was
especially fitting as Aury, a member of the French Resistance during the war,
had been influenced by Fini's paintings and theatrical costumes in her portrayal
of O in the novel. Indeed, an owl mask which O wears in the narrative was
specifically inspired by an owl mask Fini wore for a ‘Bal des Oiseaux’ in Paris
in December 1948 (Webb 126–27). In the final scene of the novel, O is
humiliated while wearing such a bird mask, as she is led by a chain by her “masters”,
René and Sir Stephen, to “a little cloister with Renaissance arcades” within
which a crowd of people watch as she is verbally and physically abused and then
“possessed” by both men (Réage 258–59). During this humiliation, in which O
comes to realize her abjection, the mask both hides her identity and leads her
to self-recognition. Given its theatrical and metaphoric role, it is not
surprising that the plumed mask dominates Fini’s preparatory drawings and final
ink washes for the novel. Her staging of the sexes is also crucial. The male
figure in her lithographs is archetypal: statuesque, strong, phallic. The
female figure bears the hallmarks of Fini’s theatrical illustrations, with a
nubile body, elongated legs and waifish, wide-eyed expression. Fini’s one
portrait of O is reminiscent of her pen and ink study of Medusa of 1950:
O’s mouth acts as a symbol for her being, wailing in the midst of a black wash,
reduced to an orifice. While Fini portrays O as a willing victim of the violent
male, in her choice of palette and frequent recourse to black ink washes around
the female form she also evokes a sense of repressed rage or desire. In 1970, she
explained that the novel appealed as a book “that possesses the virtue of describing
things that are painful and strange”, though she admitted to identifying more
with the sadistic men than with O, their willing victim (Perlman qtd. in Webb
231). Her exploration of the dialogue between the sexual master and slave resonates
with her revision of the struggle between male and female in the mythology of
the sphinx, as part of a wider assertion of liberated female sexuality.

Fini’s illustrations for Aury’s Sadean book also support Xavière
Gauthier’s analysis of the sphinx in culture as representing a sexual jouissance that is both sexual and sadistic (Gauthier 47). Gauthier views Fini’s art as a
conscious stance against traditional maternal iconography in its promotion of
sexual liberty. Gauthier cites a letter she received from Fini on 5 September
1969 in which the artist admitted to a long-standing fascination with Lilith,
the anti-Eve figure, and in which she claimed that “I find physical pregnancy
instinctively repugnant” (74).11 Having produced an oil painting entitled Woman Strangling her Child in
1933, having claimed to Webb that her father remained a “mythic person” in her
life (Webb 25), and having rejected the role of mother herself, it is perhaps
not surprising that Fini would be obsessed with a myth in which the sacrifice
of the child as well as the sacrifice of the father plays so momentous a role.
But within the larger frame of surrealism’s history this admission again allows
us to view the sphinx as a conscious re-writing of the femme fatale and as the
promotion of a new matriarchal mythology in which woman controls her sexuality.

Much as Lévi-Strauss argued that myth should be read as an open “orchestral
score” (39–40), the myth of the sphinx offered surrealism
many narratives, from an exploration of desire to existential anxiety. In the
art of Fini the sphinx interrogates gender stereotypes, from the muse to the
maternal, and offers an iconography which is transgressive in going beyond
woman as source of male creativity or as a source of procreativity alone. Fini
was passionate about the writings of Nietzsche, and as a young girl was
presented with a copy of The Gay Science (1882) by metaphysical artist
Arturo Nathan. Her paintings speak to Nietzsche’s view of the sphinx in Beyond
Good and Evil (1886). There he
wrote, “Which of us is Oedipus here? Which of us sphinx? It is, it seems, a
rendezvous of questions and question marks” (15). When it was put to Fini in an
interview in 1967 that “you have revolted more against a society that exalts
virility than against men”, Fini agreed “Yes, of course. I am against society,
eminently asocial, and I am linked to nature like a witch rather than as
priestess, as I’ve told you. I am in favor of a world where there is little or
no sex distinction” (Jelenski 3). The sexual hybridity of the sphinx, the role
of the sphinx as guardian and protector, as a natural and erotic force in
charge of her powers in the midst of chaos and waste, all reinforce this
position. The sphinx’s triumphant femininity truly emerges and enchants in
Fini’s paintings, but always with a view to leading to a better way in a world
traumatized by war.

Notes

1. See
also pages 261–62 where de Beauvoir notes the significance of the sphinx for
Breton, writing of him as a Dante in search of his Beatrice. The sphinx, she
argued, appealed as “To throw oneself into the mystery is the only way to find
out about it.”

2. Fini spent
several months in Egypt in 1951 and had a joint exhibition with Marquis Stanislao
Lepri at the Salon Isis in the Shepheard Hotel in Cairo and the Lehman Gallery
in Alexandria, exhibiting such works as Sphinx Philagria (1945) and The
Ideal Life (1950), as well as portraits.

9. In this reading
of Chthonian Deity Watching over the Sleep of a Young Man, I differ from
that of Georgiana Colvile, who concludes that this painting is “more
threatening than protective” (176).

10. Dominique Aury
admitted her authorship in an interview with John de St Jorre in 1994, in
preparation for his book The Good Ship Venus: The Erotic Voyage of the
Olympia Press, London: Hutchinson Press, 1994.

11. “Les maternités physiques me répugnent instinctivement.” In
Catholic teaching, a distinction is often made between physical motherhood and
spiritual motherhood, as in the case of those women who follow the religious
life and are viewed as the ‘Bride of Christ.’ For a discussion of the recent
use of these terms by Pope John Paul II see Beattie 74–76.